• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 09


Walking with you beneath the mangrove canopy,
hand in hand we march.
Trying to forget about your words in the car,
and how you twisted my arm.
I wince, and think of all the good times;
midnight in Portland, picnics by Loon Lake.
Feeling the warmth of those memories,
I don't hear you say my name.
And, with bull strength,
you twist my arm.